UK Lad (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

The club was one of those shitty Algarve places that pretends it’s Ibiza on a budget and smells like warm beer and coconut sunscreen that never washed off.

Bass through the floor. Pink lights on cheap chrome. Girls in white dresses screaming the chorus of a song from 2017. Str8 bros in pastel shirts buying rounds they couldn’t taste anymore because they are wasted. I was twenty-two, small, dark hair, the kind of face that gets clocked in a gay bar in two seconds and ignored in a straight one until somebody’s drunk enough to be honest.

I’d come for the risk. Not the cocktail. Not the terrace. The risk.

August on that strip is a conveyor belt. Same DJs. Same inflatable flamingos in the window of the kebab shop. Same English voices shouting one more at a bartender who stopped listening at eleven. I like it anyway. I like the heat that doesn’t drop at midnight. I like the toilets that don’t lock properly. I like standing in a crowd of men who would shove me if they knew what I was thinking and staying anyway.

I lasted forty minutes on the floor. A blonde girl bumped my shoulder and said sorry in a Birmingham accent and I smiled like I was there for her. I wasn’t. I’m a Portuguese gay boy and I love hooking up with str8 tourists. I was watching the bar. I was watching the necks. I was watching who took up space like they paid rent on the air.

He was at the far end with three friends or mates like they say. Pink polo, too tight across the chest, buttons undone because the body wanted to be seen. Navy shorts. White trainers still clean enough to be holiday shoes. Short dark hair. Thick beard. The kind of torso and arms that take bathroom selfies after the gym and send them to a group chat that says “beast”. Hairy chest pushing the fabric. Hairy stomach when he lifted the pint and the polo rode up. Arms like he’d been posing in a hotel mirror an hour before he came out.

English. You hear it before they speak. The way they stand. They way their skin don’t tan properly. The way they laugh with the mouth open. The way they look at girls like the night owes them one.

I watched him miss twice. A girl in a white dress turned her shoulder. Another laughed and went back to her friends. His mates slapped his chest and shouted something I couldn’t hear over the bass. He drained the beer. He said something ugly with a smile. Then he cut through the crowd toward the toilets.

I waited ten seconds.

Then I followed.

The men’s room was down a sticky corridor past a poster of a DJ who wasn’t there. Two urinals. One sink. A stall with no lock that anyone respected. He was already at the left urinal, one hand on the wall, pissing like the building belonged to him. The pink polo was darker at the spine. Sweat. Heat. That strong aftershave they all wear that smells like a duty-free shelf.

I should have gone to the stall.

I took the urinal next to him.

Up close he was worse. Better. The beard. The neck. The forearm flexing on the tile. He was still pissing, a heavy stream, no rush, the kind of man who doesn’t cover himself even when the room isn’t empty. I looked because I had come down that corridor to look. Thick. Heavy. Hairy at the base. The head resting on his fingers while he finished. A last shake that he didn’t hurry.

He glanced sideways.

Caught me.

Not a glance. A look. I was staring at his cock in a Portuguese nightclub toilet and I didn’t have a sentence ready. He didn’t tuck it away. He held it. He let me see it get interested in being seen.

“The fuck you staring at, mate?”

Living in Algarve for more than twenty years you start to distinguish the accents. South. Not posh. Holiday voice. Late twenties. Alcohol on the breath. The words came out easy, like he’d said them to lads before, never to someone who might say yes.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry. You’re clocking my knob in a bog.” He laughed once, no humour. A drop still hung at the slit. He didn’t wipe it. “You gay then?”

I should have lied. I didn’t. I shrugged, alcohol gives a twink some confidence.

“Yeah.”

He looked at me properly. Up. Down. Twink. Tight Sabrina Carpenter tour shirt. Smaller than him by a head and a full gym membership. His mouth did something mean and interested. His cock filled in his hand while he decided what kind of night this was going to be. I heard the outer door. Somebody came in, saw two men too close at the urinals, muttered and went into the stall. The English lad didn’t flinch. He kept talking like the stall didn’t count.

“Figures. Can’t pull a single bird all night and the first person looking at my cock is a little gay boy in the toilets.” He shook his head, almost amused. “Lads outside are all over the same three girls. I’ve been stood there like a lemon since eleven. You just gonna gawp or what?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah you did.” He stepped closer. The pink polo brushed my arm. He smelled like Boss Bottled, sweat and beer and the gym he’d done that afternoon. His cock was half-hard now, still out, still in his fist. “Tell you what, mate. You wanna learn how to be a proper bloke, you stop staring and you take it in the face. That’s a lesson. That’s all it is. I’m not kissing you. I’m not taking you home. I’m using your mouth because the girls said no and you said everything with your eyes. We clear?”

My pulse was in my throat.

“Here?”

“Not here, you div. They’ve got a disabled loo down the hall. Door locks. You coming or am I putting this away and going back to striking out like a mug?”

I went.

Risky. Stupid. The exact reason I leave my house at midnight instead of staying on the balcony with a book.

The corridor was worse. Stickier. A girl laughed behind a door. Somebody shouted from the floor. He walked like he still owned it, shorts still a mess, polo stuck to his back. I walked like I was about to get caught and I wanted to be. He checked the disabled handle, found it empty, pulled me in by the shirt like I was already late.

The disabled toilet was a box of wet floor and harsh light. He locked it. Bolted it. Checked the handle twice. Looked at me like he’d bought ten minutes of something he wasn’t going to put in the group chat.

“On your knees then, you little poofter. Don’t make it romantic. I’ve got mates at the bar who think I’m having a piss.”

I dropped. The tiles were cold through my jeans. He shoved the navy shorts down, Calvin Klein waistband. The polo rode up. Chest hair. Stomach hair. Fit as fuck. Abs covered with a trail of manly dark hair. A man who eats protein and lifts and takes photos of the result. His cock was all the way hard now, heavier than it looked at the urinal, a bead at the slit that hadn’t been there when he was pissing.

He slapped it across my mouth.

Not playful. A wet thump. Salt. Heat. Piss drops. The head dragging my lower lip. He did it again, the other side, then held it there against my cheek so I could feel the weight.

“That’s it. That’s you learning. Face. Not the eyes. You look at a lad’s cock like that in my home town you get lamped. Here you get this. Open.”

I opened.

He didn’t ease in. He pushed the head onto my tongue and kept going until my eyes watered. Club bathroom. Bass leaking through the door. Calvin Harry’s “Summer”playing. His hand in my hair like I was a gay problem he’d decided to solve with his hips.

“Fucking hell. That’s a good queer mouth. Birds won’t even touch it tonight and you’re gagging on it like it’s payday.” He laughed, breathless. “Late, this. Proper late. Should be in bed. Should be in some girl’s hotel in Albufeira. Instead I’m in a disabled bog with a Twinkie fairy. Don’t you dare stop.”

I didn’t. I sucked him the way you suck a man who will walk out after and tell himself it didn’t count. Spit ran down my chin and onto the pink hem of his polo when he shoved too deep. He used my throat in short punches, that hairy stomach in my face. The beard shining when he looked down to watch the mess. I choked. He held me there. Counted it, I think. Let me off. Put me back on.

“Take it, mate. That’s a proper man’s cock. That’s what you were staring at while I was having a slash. Now you’ve got it. Don’t look at me like that. Look at the job. Suck it you fucking poof.”

He pulled out long enough to slap it on my cheek, my mouth, the other cheek. Wet. Mean. Holiday boy who’d lost the plot between the second pint and the third no from a blond with huge boobs. He smeared the spit across my mouth with his thumb and put the thumb on my tongue.

“Say please.”

“Please.”

“Please what.”

“Please use my mouth.”

“Louder. I want to hear you over that shitty music. I would prefer facefuck you while Arctic Monkeys were playing.”

“Please use my mouth, sir.”

“That’s more like it.”

He fucked my face properly then. A proper face fuck. No performance. The lock on the door was the only polite thing in the room. His balls were heavy and sweat-sour from dancing. I got my hands on his thighs — thick, hard, muscles tense — and he didn’t tell me to stop. He told me to take more. When I gagged he swore like he was at a match. When I got him deep he said good lad like I was a dog and I took that too.

Somebody tried the handle.

We both froze. His cock still on my tongue. The handle rattled once. His voice said “occupied, mate” and the person walked off. He let out a breath that was almost a laugh and shoved back in like the scare had made it better.

“You do this a lot then? Follow straight lads into bogs?”

I came off him long enough to breathe.

“When they look hot like you.”

“Don’t start. I’m not gay. I’m on holiday. I’m pissed off. You’re a hole with a pretty fairy face and that’s the end of the sentence.” He put it back in my mouth to close the subject. “Suck.”

I sucked. I thought about the bathroom tiles in his hotel,  the way he would have flexed shirtless for the phone before he put the pink polo on. I thought about his mates at the bar checking the time. I thought about the girl in the white dress and how she had no idea what he’d done with the no she gave him. I should thank her.

He got rougher when he got close. Both hands. Hips short and mean. The polo stuck to his chest. A drop of sweat fell off his forehead onto my forehead. He talked through it, low, filthy, the accent thicker.

“That’s it. Take it. Fucking take it. You wanted a look at a proper English sausage, now you can wear it. I’m not lasting. I’ve been hard since you stared at me pissing. That’s on you, mate.”

I hummed around him. He swore.

“I’m gonna paint you. I’m not coming in your throat. I want to see it on that pretty little face so you remember who you were staring at. You got that?”

I nodded on his cock.

He pulled out with a sound like he’d been punched. Fist tight. Hips jerking. 

“Fuck— take it, you dirty little slag— fucking take it—” He came across my mouth first, then my cheek, roaring through his teeth like he was still on his hotel gym. “That’s it. Wear it. Fucking hell. You wanted a look at a proper cock, now you’ve got it on your face, you filthy little twat.” Another pulse hit my eye. He laughed, wrecked, still stroking. “Look at the state of you. Proper painted. That’s what you get for staring at a bloke having a slash, mate.” He was breathing like he’d run a Manchester marathon.

“Look at your face. Fucking hell.” He wiped the head on my lower lip, then my other cheek, like he was signing it. “Swallow what’s in your mouth. The rest stays. You’re walking out like that. That’s the lesson, mate.”

I swallowed. The rest cooled on my skin. I could feel it on my chin. I could taste him and the lager and the stupid decision. My knees hurt. My jaw hurt. I was harder than I’d been all week and he didn’t look at that once.

He tucked himself into the shorts, fixed the polo, checked the beard in the mirror like he hadn’t just used a stranger’s face in a locked toilet in a shitty club in Algarve. He ran water on his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair, casually putting his usual masculine style back in place.

“You tell anyone in that club and I’ll say you’re lying.” He unlocked the door. Paused with his hand on the bolt. “What’s your name?”

“Diego.” I told him covered with his UK load.

“Shane. Give me your Snapchat. Maybe I’ll hit you up at my hotel sometime.” I gave him my @ and he typed it on his iPhone.

“Right, mate. I’m going back to the bar. If the girls are still a write-off I might come find the disabled again. Don’t wait around like a lost puppy. I’m not your boyfriend. I’m a bloke who couldn’t get laid and found a hungry poofer mouth. That’s the whole story. We clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“Good lad.”

He left. Bass hit me in the chest. LMFAO playing. This DJ was a decade late. Somebody walked past the open door, glanced, kept going. I stood up on wet tiles with an English stranger’s cum on my face and a pink polo disappearing into the corridor.

I didn’t wash it all off.

I used the sink for the eye and left the rest. Just enough wiped that security wouldn’t clock it. Just enough left that I could still smell him when I ordered a water I didn’t want and stood at the edge of the floor and watched him buy another pint and laugh with his mates like the last twelve minutes had been a different man.

He caught my eye once across the lights.

Looked through me.

Drank.

Outside later, the Algarve night was hot and cheap and full of English boys in pastel shirts who thought they were being subtle.

I checked that corridor once before closing.

The disabled was empty.

I walked back to my place with the taste of him still in my teeth and the pink polo already turning into a story I would tell on my knees again if I ever saw that beard in another doorway.

Risky. Stupid.

The exact reason I leave at midnight.